


The Twelve Ficlets of Christmas

by bewickedandlovely



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AUideas Advent Calendar, Blanket Permission, Drabble Collection, Flash Fic, M/M, One Shot Collection, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-04 16:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5340173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewickedandlovely/pseuds/bewickedandlovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve Bagginshield ficlets around 1000 words each, written for the AUideas Advent Calendar 2015 challenge. A new ficlet written to AUideas' prompt every other day in December!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Thawing of a Chilly Hobbit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [AUideas Advent Calendar](http://auideas.tumblr.com/post/134244920817/auideas-advent-calendar).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt #1 - JUST A BIT CHILLED**
> 
> _"For Character A, life can be a bit chilled. With a lower than normal body temperature, they will use anything to try and warm up. When in a public place, they can’t hold themself together and continuously inch towards a stranger, Character B, as they are certainly a needed source of heat. Character B is amused, and asks “how Character A is doing.” In response, they simply say that they’re “just a bit chilled.”_
> 
> _This same routine continues for quite some time until with each day, Character B brings more and more warming “tools,” from a blanket to hot chocolate, eventually compiling to the extreme of building an actual fire on the sidewalk that forces Characters A & B to run from any incoming police officers._
> 
> _Their relationship is close, unwavering, and grows warmer by the slightly chilled second."_

Bilbo shivered as a light breeze blew across the market square. The day was mild, with most gentlehobbits still in their shirtsleeves, yet Bilbo still felt a chill deep in his bones. It had little to do with the waistcoat and jacket he wore atop his shirt, and everything to do with frightful memories gripping his heart. Even at the height of summer, he had never forgotten the Fell Winter, the implacable cold, the numbness in his fingers, the purple tinge to his mother’s lips.

Bilbo willed the cold fear away; only memories, only worry.

His feet had carried him to the smithy and the heat emanating from the forge was doing wonders for Bilbo. He sighed in relief as he felt the shivering ebb.

“Master Hobbit?”

Bilbo jumped at the deep rumbling voice. Goodness gracious, but he’d been swaying on his feet. Swaying towards a Dwarf he’d never met, inches from touching the stranger.

“Ma- Master Dwarf! I do beg your pardon!”

The Dwarf was tall for his kind, his brow furrowed, and he wore a blacksmith’s apron.

“Are you taken ill? You are shivering,” the stranger said gruffly.

“Oh yes quite. Quite well. I am just- a little chilled.”

“In this weather?”

The Dwarf would be surprised, his own sleeves rolled up to his upper arms, revealing taut muscles. Oh dear.

“I- I’ve always felt the cold keenly,” Bilbo rasped, feeling a blush in his cheeks even as gooseflesh rose on his arms.

“I cannot leave a customer shivering,” the Dwarf said, retrieving a blue cloak from inside the forge and wrapping it around Bilbo’s shoulder before he could protest. “Please, I insist,” he added when Bilbo did start to protest, “You should go home and light a fire. Bring the cloak back tomorrow. Around the same time, if you would not mind?”

“Yes, well- Thank you,” Bilbo capitulated, the cloak warm and heavy on his shoulders. “I am much obliged to you, er- Master Blacksmith.”

The stranger made a throaty sound that may have been the beginning of a chuckle and inclined his head to Bilbo.

“Thorin Oakenshield, at your service.”

“Bilbo Baggins, at yours.”

*

The next day, Bilbo returned to the market as promised, the cloak folded into a neat bundle held with twine and was met by Master Oakenshield and two steaming mugs of spiced winter wine.

“Oh, you needn’t have,” he exclaimed, smiling all the same.

“I can’t well deprive you of my cloak and not offer some support against the cold.”

Bilbo gave a snort at that, because he knew the Dwarf was humouring him. It was not cold in the least, for all that he’d had to wear a scarf against the breeze. He thanked his new acquaintance again, and offered the biscuits he had baked in thanks. Master Oakenshield had not been expecting that, and gave his first real smile. It warmed Bilbo almost as much as the cloak had.

*

Bilbo enjoyed routine. Routine was reassuring, it was comfortable, it was safe. And so what if he shifted his routine slightly after those first days? So what if he found himself leaving for the market later, when Thorin worked the stall instead of the forge?

He was a Hobbit grown, and he would not begrudge himself the company of this new friend who always seemed to invent something new to keep Bilbo warm.

Thorin would often greet Bilbo with more spiced wine, or hot cider, or simply tea, but he had also resorted to warm bread fresh from the baker’s stall, roasted chestnuts from a passing cart, and small meat-filled pastries he had rescued from the previous night’s dinner. These last had been cold, but so spicy that they had warmed Bilbo from the inside. No, he would certainly not begrudge himself Thorin’s company after those.

*

“I’ve an idea, that is, if you-” Thorin cleared his throat, a hint of pink flushing his cheeks, “Are you free to meet me after the market closes?”

Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. That was new. And intriguing. And entirely improper. Thorin would not done closing the market before past afternoon tea, and would meeting him mean missing dinner? Perhaps if he ate more for afternoon tea, though it wasn’t his habit. It would not do to let routine rule his life, he could almost hear his mother berating him.

Then, Bilbo made the mistake of looking up at Thorin, and agreed to the meeting before he knew what he was saying. Those eyes!

 “Don’t worry,” Thorin reassured with a smirk, “There will be food.”

*

Thorin got lost on the way and ran up to Bilbo puffing like his forge and apologising for his lateness. Bilbo shook his head and smiled fondly at Thorin from underneath his woollen hat and scarf as they looked for a convenient spot. It didn’t feel so cold any more.

It was ridiculous really, sharing a night-time picnic with this broad Dwarf, the silver strands of his hair vanishing into the rest of his black mane as the last light of the day waned. It might be ridiculous, but it was the best evening Bilbo had had in years, and he felt his heart and his senses melt at Thorin’s soft chuckles. But even as they shared stories and smoked, swaddled in blankets and resting against each other, the tip of Bilbo’s nose ached with cold.

“That’s it,” Thorin declared with the authority of a king when Bilbo sneezed mightily, “We’re having a fire.”

Bilbo protested, laughing through another sneeze that Thorin couldn’t build a fire by the side of the road. Thorin grumbled that he could and that he would, thank you very much.

“I’m not having you shivering with cold when I could do something about it,” he insisted, striking a flint over kindling that had not been there a moment ago.

Bilbo was still gaping at the speed with which Thorin raised the spark into a small fire when the warden came roaring down the road from the marketplace. Both Hobbit and Dwarf sprang to their feet, Thorin dousing the fire as Bilbo gathered the blanket they’d sat around everything else. The warden sputtered in his indignation as he went, so that Bilbo recognised his voice when he got too close.

“Come quick,” he urged Thorin, keeping his voice low, “This way!”

They scrambled like thieves, Thorin scooping up the mess of blankets as he followed the hobbit. The warden was a second cousin of Bilbo’s, who had no wish to be recognised. They led the warden a merry chase, until the irate hobbit’s footfalls slowed and stopped, and even his cursing died away behind them.

Bilbo collapsed right onto Thorin then, and they lay sprawled in the grass for a moment.

“Are you still cold?” Thorin asked right in Bilbo’s ear.

“Not at all,” Bilbo said softly, feeling completely at ease as he snuggled his head closer to Thorin’s. “But if you want to come back to Bag End with me, you can start a proper fire in the hearth and I’ll fix us some supper.”


	2. hungrybilbs & beardalot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt #2 - NEIGHBOR AU**
> 
> _"Character A and Character B are online friends who have never met in real life, and due to Character B’s overcautious nature, neither of them ever revealed where they lived. One day, while Character B is wasting time at an outdoor mall, they can clearly see Character A sitting inside a coffeeshop just around the corner, smiling at their laptop as they work."_

Thorin sighed, watching his breath puff out in front of him in the chilly morning mist and wishing he'd remembered to buy more milk the night before, instead of having to walk to the shop for a top-up first thing.

This had, of course, not happened back in Erebor. Heirs to ancient royal houses did not simply run out of milk. But princelings who’d petitioned King Thror for the right to move abroad... That was a different story.

Shaking his head at what a ridiculously dramatic grump he was being, Thorin took his phone out of his pocket for a distraction, checking his email first. Spam, spam, and more spam.

He opened his secret twitter account as he turned into the main street, replying to his few actually interesting contacts, and ignoring everybody else. Then, he went looking for @hungrybilbs.

Thorin frowned. Bilbo was tweeting about ‘scrumptious pancakes’ and a ‘delightful blueberry smoothie’ and a ‘merry gaggle of pugs’ nearby. And he still hadn’t emailed Thorin back.

He was being a ridiculously dramatic grump again, and probably childish, and definitely unfair to Bilbo. So, he hadn’t heard from the guy in over two days, that was hardly unusual. _Maybe_ , he berated himself, _just maybe, if you stopped sending him emails longer than the Ereborean constitution, he’d reply quicker_.

Earlier this year, Thorin had somehow taken up an email correspondence with Bilbo Baggins, lifestyle blogger, first-class foodie and up-and-coming writer. Bilbo’s emails were cheerful, yet sharply-worded and insightful, and never failed to brighten Thorin’s day. Like a besotted teenager, he couldn’t help _hoping_ , _thinking,_ _fantasising_ , though he knew nothing would come of it.  

The flirty asides that peppered their emails, the joking references their followers made to their bickering like an old married couple and Bilbo’s downright adorable selfies – none of it especially helped with Thorin’s crush.

“Excuse me? Are you going in?” asked a woman’s voice from behind him, pointing at the door he had apparently stopped right in front of, without noticing it. Mortified, he muttered a quick apology, and pushed the door, stepping inside the warmth without thinking.

Thorin had always ignored this particular coffee shop until today; he wasn’t much for brunching, that was Bilbo’s thing. But the counter was heaped high with pastries and the coffee smelled wonderful.

Time to quit moping over his crush not emailing him back right away and start acting his age. He ordered a full English breakfast and a coffee, and made his way to the back of the shop where the last free table was tucked into a corner behind a plush armchair.

Once he was wedged in the tight spot, he read a couple of articles on his phone, trying to ignore the sounds of barking dogs and laughing children. If he’d known he’d be having breakfast in a busy cafe, he’d have brought his headphones. As it was, he was too distracted to do anything productive as he waited for his food.

Thorin’s gaze travelled idly around the room, before settling on the armchair right near his table. The man who sat there did wear headphones, his light brown curls almost hiding the dark red headset. The man was busy scribbling in a notebook, but he also had a laptop on the table in front of him, with an expensive-looking camera plugged into it and a whole page of pictures of the man’s breakfast displayed onscreen.

He’d never understood why anyone would want to do this, capture food on camera in loving details, instead of putting it in their mouth where it belonged. He’d ranted about it on twitter, and Bilbo had  volunteer to enlighten him.

@hungrybilbs: _I need more than 140 characters to tell you how wrong you are; can I email you?_

He’d chuckled at that but he’d also been intrigued, so he’d agreed. That was how he’d gotten himself in this mess.

His food arrived then, looking much more like a fancy brunch than a traditional full English, and Thorin reached for his phone, cursing himself for a fool.

@beardalot: _Impromptu breakfast out, blame @hungrybilbs’ hipstery influence for the food photo (blame me for poor pic quality). [IMAGE]_

He had put his phone down and started tucking into his delicious breakfast when he distinctly heard someone call his name.

Thorin froze, keeping his eyes firmly on his plate and his mind firmly on the emergency instructions his grandfather’s advisors had given him, should he be recognised. There was no need to panic. Ereboreans were a reserved people, and whoever was calling him would leave him alone once they saw he wasn’t interested.

He finished the food as fast as he could, not enjoying it one bit. Now he’d have to take some convoluted way home to avoid leading whoever had recognised him back to his flat, so he’d better get going. His phoned buzzed with a new email notification.

It was from Bilbo. Finally, something this morning was going right. Or not? The message was only a couple of lines long.

_“Hey, are you okay? I AM SO SORRY. I didn’t mean to freak you out, I just wanted to say hi. It was probably super creepy to have some weirdo call your name out of the blue. I didn’t think-“_

Thorin’s mind went numb with relief and incomprehension for a moment, before a wave of giddiness crashing into him. His eyes snapped up, scanning the room for Bilbo, to properly, finally meet him.

“Hey,” said Bilbo, turning around in his armchair to meet Thorin’s eyes, “I’m sorry. This place is basically my office, I’d recognise the table settings anywhere, so when I saw your picture, I-“

Thorin burst into laughter, feeling light-headed at the obviousness of it, in retrospect.

“What?” Bilbo looked hurt.

“You recognised the table décor? Bilbo, admit it. You recognise the food, didn’t you?”

Bilbo’s cheeks flushed, but he broke into a brilliant smile.

“You can’t prove anything, Thorin.”


	3. You'll Always Surprise Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt #3 - THE GOLDFISH DILEMMA AU**
> 
> _Character A & Character B have known each other for quite a while, but this would be the first time they go grocery shopping together. Among other quirks, Character B has a bit of an unknown obsession with little crunchy, salty cheddar goodness that most people know as Goldfish™. Because Character A doesn’t know about this oddity, they become increasingly confused by Character B’s antics and attempts at sneaking the delectable snack into their cart._

“So, you see,” Bilbo said, placing the purple vegetable in the cart, “Purple sprouting broccoli is sweeter than what you’ll have tried before. I’m making it with the chicken, you’ll see on Thursday.”

“I’m sure it will be delicious,” Thorin said earnestly, as he followed Bilbo down the supermarket aisle with their cart.

_Their_ cart. That was going to take some getting used to.  

“I bet you say that to all your new housemates,” Bilbo quipped, although his cheeks flushed with pride at the compliment.

“The only other housemates I’ve had didn’t cook nearly as well as you,” Thorin chuckled. He’d only lived with his sister Dis, and then with Dwalin after Dis had gotten married. He’d actually lived alone for a good few years, and if he was finding it a little strange, having to share a kitchen and living room again. That’s definitely what it was. Having to share again. Not having to share _with Bilbo_.

“And I bet Dwalin didn’t insist on cooking for you either, huh?” Bilbo asked with a little self-deprecating smile.

“Are you assuming that Dis did?” Thorin chuckled, before sobering. “Bilbo, you know that you don’t have to do that, I mean I can for myself if you don’t want to-”

“But I do want to, Thorin,” he replied with a touch of exasperation to his voice. “We’ve been over this. I like cooking, it’s easier to cook for two than one, and you can do all the washing-up so I never have to go near it again.”

Thorin tried to smile, but he was still worried that Bilbo might feel some sort of expectation or entitlement from him. Bilbo had been so apologetic when he’d come to Thorin asking if he would let him his spare bedroom for a few months, while renovations were ongoing at Bilbo’s place.

Finally, he forced himself to try a jokey approach, “I suppose it doesn’t hurt that you’d never be subjected to my non-existent cooking skills again?”

“Thorin!” Bilbo whipped round to face him. “I said I want to, okay? I like to cook for people I care about, it’s a way of taking care and it makes me happy. You can do more other chores if you’re uncomfortable with it, but I want to cook for you, okay?”

Thorin nodded without speaking, his throat a little dry. Bilbo had just said he cared about him, and there had been an intensity to his voice that sounded so close to what Thorin felt for his friend.

_You are reading too much into this, you clot_ , Thorin berated himself. _He just needed a place to crash, and everyone else he knows has gaggles of toddlers mucking around the place._

He knew he shouldn’t have agreed, but there was no way he could have refused Bilbo without explaining why it might not be the best situation to be in, and well- if he ever managed to gather the nerves to tell Bilbo about his feelings, he didn’t want it to be while he was denying him a place to stay. A good friend would have agreed to help, so that was what Thorin had done.

“Thorin?”

Thorin’s gaze snapped to Bilbo, there had been the slightest strain to his voice.

“Yes?”

“Would you grab the Goldfish crackers from the upper shelf for me, please?”

He pointed at the packet, which just of his reach. Thorin thought to joke about how he was being useful for once, but thought better of it, given how his last ‘joke’ had gone down.

“Are you having family to visit or something?” Thorin asked as he dumped the bag of crackers in the cart.

“Family?” Bilbo asked non-plussed.

“I mean, it’s fine if you’re going to, of course, I just thought, maybe you might, since those- well, you know-” Thorin frowned as Bilbo plucked the Goldfish crackers out of the cart and checked something on the back of the package.

“Would you get me a couple more please? Or three, actually, those are really small.” He shook the packet dismissively and sighed. “Oh and can you see if they’ve got other flavours too?”

“Other flavours?” Thorin asked, complying nonetheless. All the little packets looked the exact same. “I didn’t know those came in other flavours. Hm, doesn’t look like it.”

“Shame,” Bilbo sighed, “I suppose I’ll have to make do with only those. Oh well.”

“Wait, those are for you?” Thorin asked, shocked.

“Well, of course, since they’re not for you.”

“You mean, to eat?”

“What else would I do with cheese crackers?”

Thorin laughed.

Bilbo, eating pre-packaged, chemical-filled junk food? Bilbo, eating anything cheddar flavoured? This man who believed the only colours appropriate for cheese were white, blue and herb-coated, this man wanted to eat cheese-flavoured crackers shaped like tiny fish?

“What?!”

“Nothing dear, you’ll just always surprise me,” Thorin gasped between deep chuckles.

“Thorin?” Bilbo took a step towards him, face suddenly serious. “Did you just call me-”

Bilbo’s mouth hung slightly open and Thorin found he could not look at him. He was a fool, and he’d never been a subtle one either, but this? God but that was badly done. Thorin knew there was no mistaking his tone, his affection had been pouring from him like a spring shower.

And Bilbo… When Thorin looked up, he stood close, his face unmoving, looking almost… stern? Guarded? What was that look on his face? Thorin felt that strange look like a punch in the gut. What did he expect, really – a smile and a declaration?

“Look, Bilbo, I- I never meant to say anything, I-”

“Don’t you dare be sorry,” Bilbo said, and his voice was strained, as he closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around Thorin.

“I’m really not,” Thorin breathed into Bilbo’s hair as he hugged him back.

“That’s good, dear.”


	4. Bilbo vs the Dwarven flu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt #4 - PLEASE KEEP AN EYE ON ME AU**
> 
> _Character A begins to panic when they realize that something about them has changed in the past week and they just feel…wrong. They meet with Character B in a clearly exhausted and disheveled state, asking for their help. Character B agrees wholeheartedly but is taken by surprise when Character A asks them to stay with them overnight to make sure nothing happens._

Bilbo barely heard the knock at the door over his own ragged breath and shattering teeth.

“Bilbo?” Thorin called, striding into the hobbit’s private rooms when his knock went unanswered.

Thorin took one look at his burglar and let out a string of curses in Khuzdul, rushing to kneel by Bilbo’s side.

“Bilbo, what is wrong? You look dreadful!”

The hobbit tried to answer, to say that it was nothing, just a little cold, but the only thing that escaped his swollen throat was a pained squeak. He did not even have the strength to scold Thorin for saying he looked dreadful.

“Thorin, I-” Bilbo started, a wracking cough interrupting him, “I am feeling unwell.”

“I can see that plain as a link of mithril in an iron chain,” Thorin said coarsely as he lay a remarkably gentle hand to Bilbo’s forehead, “You’re burning up. Are you cold?”

“Yes, very cold,” Bilbo breathed with a hint of a chuckle. He had no business being cold at all. It was quite warm under the mountain, with feet of stone to keep the chill of the outside world out. He had felt a bit nippy after lunch nevertheless, and so he’d set himself up quite comfortably in the plump armchair Thorin had commissioned for him after he’d decided to stay in Erebor. His seat was right by the roaring fire, he’d had some nice hot tea, sitting with his feet tucked under him for warmth, with a coverlet over his lap. his every muscle aching.

By rights he should be roasting warm, yet he felt a cold seeping in his bones even as beads of sweat trickled down his back. Most inconvenient, it was.

“Bilbo!”

His head snapped up, his eyes opening wide at Thorin’s call. He’d been nodding off without realising so.

“Mahal, no wonder you weren’t at dinner, you can’t even stay awake. Óin needs to see to you.”

“Don’t think I can walk,” Bilbo whispered, his eyelids growing heavier by the minute.

“No need.”

Bilbo caught a glimpse of Thorin’s face, contorted in fear, as the King picked up from his chair in one swift motion. Bilbo wanted to tell him not to worry, but he had no strength to speak. His head pounded in time with Thorin’s hurried steps, and he could not keep his eyes open any more.

*

At first there was only the cold, then came the soft crying of hungry fauntlings, and the accursed white light through the window of the smial. Snow was everywhere, coming through the cracks in the walls, pushing through a door that had once been green, now encased in glittering frost. The snow banked inside his home, his mind, his body, and when the banks were good and high, towering above grown hobbits and fauntlings alike, it took shape. Slowly, viciously, the snow rose in the bitter cold air and formed into a great white beast with talons and fangs, its ears flattened in rage, it took life. The snow wolf leaped at Bilbo and tore at his throat.”

*

Bilbo heard voices, muffled and urgent besides him. He knew they spoke Westron, but not understand where their words started and finished. He tried to make a noise, and immediately there was a hand pressing against his cheek, soft and warm. Thorin’s voice was deep and reassuringly close, and his jumbled words finally came together.

“...worried, I could not rouse you from sleep. Praise Mahal, I-”

“Thorin please,” that was another dwarf, and yes – one of Bilbo’s thirteen, too. “Will you let me?”

Óin’s face swam into Bilbo’s vision as he held a cup to the hobbit’s face and encouraged him to drain its contents. It was bitter, and Bilbo struggled to force down, but he mind felt marginally clearer after he had.

He felt wretched, and he’d not been this ill in years. He could not keep awake, nor had he recognised Oin’s voice just now.

He had not felt this ill this the Fell Winter.

“You’ll need to set a watch over him tonight,” Oin told the King, “I wouldn’t have him unsupervised.”

Thorin nodded brusquely, withdrawing his and from Bilbo’s cheek, “I must speak with Balin.”

“No! Thorin, please!” Bilbo gasped, panic creeping into voice. What good would a watch do him? “Please stay. Stay with me. I’m scared, I-“

“Of course, I’m staying with you,” Thorin said earnestly, his face softening when he spoke to Bilbo, “I wouldn’t let another watch over you now. Oin, fetch Balin to me, he’ll be ruling under my mountain tonight, I must speak with him.”

Bilbo stretched his lips into a feeble smile as Thorin’s calloused hands brushed his sweat-damp hair from his brow. Thorin crouched by the side of Bilbo’s bed so their head were near and the soothing sounds he made, low in his throat, warmed Bilbo as much as the touch of his hands.

“See, silly hobbit? I am right here still.”

“Good,” Bilbo breathed, his eyelids heavy again, “I always feel safe with you.”

*

Bilbo was yawning, his head already lolling to the side, so he could not hear the small gasp of emotion his words wrenched from Thorin’s throat.

A small bubble of hope blossomed in the dwarf’s chest amid a flood of worry. His beloved lay shivering with some dwarven fever his small hobbit body did not know how to combat, and he felt safe with Thorin? Always? After everything that had happened between them, Thorin could never have dared dream…

Mahal, but there might still be a chance.

_No more dissembling_ , Thorin resolved, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s shoulder in a silent promise.

According to Óin, Bilbo would be well again in a few days. Thorin would ask him then. He would lay his soul bare, offer his heart, his hand and if Mahal was good, perhaps Bilbo would have him.

Thorin smiled as he tucked the quilt snugly under Bilbo’s chin.


	5. The Bunny's Suicides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt #5 - The Phoenix Immortal AU**
> 
> _After Character A once made a deal, they became as immortal as they come, but under a specific condition: in order to remain immortal, they must find an ingenious and original way to kill themself on every new moon without repeating a previous method. If they do accidentally use a previous method, they will be doomed for all eternity._
> 
> _Sure enough, Character B finds a small notebook while they are rummaging through some belongings that has a curiously deadly list scrawled in the handwriting of Character A._

To the world at large, Bilbo Baggins is no more than a wealthy eccentric who enjoys a leisurely life in his sprawling country home and comes to London every so often, on some adventure or other. But the truth makes for a much more interesting story.

The truth is that he’s a decent enough fellow, certainly strange but undoubtedly gifted with words. From his pen have sprouted philosophical treatises, intricate fantasy novels, political pamphlets, gardening handbooks, silly stories for children and travelling guides.

Once, he even published a gruesome little picture book once, with nothing but fluffy, adorable white rabbits finding all sorts of ways of committing suicide. Lobelia had not been impressed; she had told him in no uncertain terms that the death of bunnies was not a funny concept, nor appropriate to a picture book, and that he had better keep that _thing_ well away from her young son’s eyes. Bilbo had donated five copies of his _Book of Bunny Suicides_ to Lotho’s school library.

He writes on any and all subjects – he does it in comfort yes, but all the same, he never stops working on whatever has taken his fancy on a given day.

Some days, he will garden from dawn to dusk, utterly devotes to his rose beds, and only notice the ache in his leg from too much movement when he settles down to a hearty bowl of stew and a pot of sweet tea.

Some days, he will sit hunched at his desk, typing away at a manuscript with no care for the outside world, and only notice the ache in his back from lack of movement when he settles himself by the fireplace with a favourite book.

And some days – on the new moon to be exact – he will spend the entire morning and afternoon setting up an elaborate trap, travelling to remote wilderness, or breaking into a zoo to pick the lock of the lion’s cage. These days, he has no aches in the evening.

The truth is, those are the days Bilbo Baggins spends wholly devoted to killing himself.

Those days there might be pain, there will likely be pain, and quite a lot of it too. But the pain does not tend to last, and when all is said and done, he wakes in his bed. He breathes in the first lungful of air of this month, of this new life, and then he rises, hale and whole, and goes to make a cup of tea.

It’s a long story that’s led him here, and probably not much worth telling in great detail. He died once, really died, the first time. The doctors said later he had been ‘hanging on by a thread’, but Bilbo knew he’d died plain as day. You didn’t meet god-like figures with powers of life and death unless you properly went to the other side for a little bit.

When he’d been given the chance to come back to his life, he’d not hesitated; he’d had at least three books that needed finishing, his tomatoes had been ready to take the Harvest Festival by storm, and there had been the most beautiful chocolate cake in the oven – he couldn’t well just die when such things awaiting him back home.

So now he was immortal, only he had to off himself on the new moon, and do it in a way that would entertain the gods. You’d think the gods, who value life, would frown upon repeated suicides, yet they’d confided in Bilbo, they wanted to see and feel bloodshed for they had a greed for pain, but they wished not to inflict permanent damages. So he gave them a show, and was granted his body back in full form again should he satisfy his audience.

He had been going on for years, and though Bilbo could be maudlin, even moody at times, he did not regret the agreement. He liked living, even though he’d spent years living alone, being mistrusted by his neighbours and having to keep his dark sense of humour of a tight leash for fear of offending the good folk of the town.

And then, one day, he’d met two young boys at a book reading, and after a chat with their spirited mother, he had met their tall, handsome uncle. Thorin quickly went from pleasant acquaintance, to fast friend, to perhaps more. Hopefully more.

Bilbo welcomed Thorin into the house with a wide smile and a please to make himself at home while he went to check on the oven. When he came back, carrying a tray heaped with warm, golden scones, Thorin was not in the sitting room, but Bilbo could hear his low humming further down the hallway. Grinning, he joined his tall, handsome, hopefully-more-than-a-friend in the study.

“How do you like it?” he asked, busying himself with the tea things.

“Er, that book is certainly, um, strange,” said Thorin, pointing at the thick leather notebook that lay open on the desk.

Bilbo felt as if the air had been punched from his lungs. That was the book of his deaths, where he recorded ideas for future stunts.

Thorin’s eyes were still fixed on the page.

What was _on there_ , Bilbo tried frantically to remember.

”Is that- for a future bunny book?”

“Wh- YES! Yes, indeed,” Bilbo grabbed hold of the idea, and did not let go. “It’s not that good, bit too dark, those are. Not sure I’ll finish it… Want some scones?”

The change of topic hadn’t been subtle, but Thorin had gone for it; after tea, scones and in-depth literary debate, they’d moved on to a lush dinner, and a tipple on the couch. And now, they’d moved on to a cuddle on the couch and Bilbo thought, not for the first time, that he had definitely made the right choice all those years ago.


	6. Bilbo Baggins, Intelligencer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt #6 - The Spirit at the Bottom of the Bottle AU**
> 
> _Character A has a drinking problem, but it’s not because they are an alcoholic. Character A is a ghost hunter and the easiest and cheapest place to store a spirit just happens to be in a wine bottle to be recorked and stored in secret - this can lead to some strange looks from the local Liquor Store after piling tens of bottles into their cart on a single night._

Bilbo Baggins was an unobtrusive man, the kind of bloke you saw one second and forgot the next. He just had that look about him, of a mild-mannered man, just average enough to be utterly boring. This state of affairs suited Bilbo just fine. Perhaps being known as basically the dullest man ever would have bothered him, if he’d truly been the lacklustre little grocer he pretended to be.

But Bilbo knew his part, and he’d accepted the secrecy that came with working for Gandalf when he’d taken up that mantle from his mother. If the only thing he lost in the unending fight the maintain the world balanced was the opinion of the town’s gossips, well… That mattered little to him. Their dismissive attitudes allowed him to know everything that happened in town without ever looking like he was snooping.

People didn’t see him, and people talked as if they were alone.

And today they talked about a regular customer they’d charmingly dubbed _the hot drunk guy_. He came round once a month, and filled his cart up high which some of the cheaper wines they stocked. One cashier once asked him if there was any special occasion, and he’d replied that there wasn’t.

 _He even looked surprised that I asked_ , the girl told a colleague in the back room, _like it’s not completely obvious. What a shame, such a handsome man, so well put together he seems too, when he’s not– well…_ Bilbo’s nosy colleague lived near the man and saw him walking by every once in a while, looking sober as could be. _Then he’s back here, full cart at 3pm, and it’s the cheap, nasty stuff too..._

Bilbo exited the storage room without a noise and went to check the wine aisle. The man bought cheap wine, so let’s see. Bilbo checked the cheapest bottles to find that two of the cheap reds came with actual corks rather than plastics caps.

He had a lead. It was fairly minor (no reason to alert Gandalf as of yet) but certainly the kind of thing Bilbo should look into. As an intelligencer working one of the highest authorities on the occult, he had a responsibility to make sure the arcane realm remained separate to and hidden from the mundane world.

Bilbo was well read, with a particular interest in old arcane traditions, so he knew a fair amount about ancestral practises. Things like entrapping evil, lost or wandering spirits in wine bottles, for instance. It was to do with the properties of the glass and cork combined with a handy little spell, easy to work even in the field, that would seal the two materials together and keep the spirit safely in the bottle.

It was possible that his quarry was simply a handsome man with a drinking problem, but Bilbo wouldn’t have put money on it, even he could be seen enjoying the odd bet here and there. Buying alcohol in large doses once a month was a tell-tale sign, and when Bilbo checked the gossiping of his colleagues against a lunar chart he found that the man’s last two visits had been just before the full moon, a point of high activity for the occult. It was enough of a lead for Bilbo to switch his work shift quietly so he would be in on the Thursday afternoon before the next full moon.

It was a little after four when a tall man in a well-cut suit rolled a large cart up to the till, nodding cursorily at Bilbo.

“Afternoon,” said Bilbo in his well-practiced ‘ _I’m supposed to be enthusiastic but I really want to clock off’_ work voice.

“Huh-hm,” the man responded as he started to lay the wine bottles flat in front of Bilbo. The intelligencer observed him discretely and took his time scanning each item. The man was quite something, very handsome indeed, with sharp, aristocratic features and a no-nonsense sort of look about him. Every bottle he passed Bilbo was a cork-top.

“You’re not having a party,” Bilbo started, speaking low. He kept his voice pleasant but he made it clear he wasn’t asking a question.

“Excuse me?” the man started, focusing his attention completely on Bilbo now. His eyes were very blue, and that distracted Bilbo for a second, until he noted a shift in the man’s stance. He stood straighter now, his right arm moved back as if to grab hold of a weapon, and Bilbo just knew he was onto something.

“What do you do with the wine?” Bilbo pressed, his tone cordial, just mildly curious. “Do you throw it all out or do you just eat _a lot_ of coq-au-vin?”

“Cokkah-what?” the man frowned, not denying Bilbo’s implicit assumption that he did not, in fact, just go home and get hammered.

Bilbo shook his head, appalled at the wasted coq-au-vin potential.

“Listen, you’re not being subtle,” he whispered to the man, holding up a hand to silence him. “It’s the pattern, people have noticed something’s weird, they _talk_. You want to be more careful.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the man replied stiffly.

“Fine, but know we’re on the same side,” Bilbo said, looking the man straight in the eyes. “And I could help you.”

“I don’t need any help!” Thorin snapped.

“Suit yourself, ghost hunter” Bilbo said quietly, then he added, “And here are some more bags, Sir.”

“Who are you?” The man asked hesitantly. “What are you?”

Bilbo smiled and whipped out a small card from his pocket and popped it in one of the man’s carrier bags.

He had won.


	7. The Old-Fashioned Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt #7 - “Temp-Terminal” AU**
> 
> _In a world where nearly everything has become an advertisement, people have been promoting themselves as a decent human being even more intensely through the use of “Temp-Terminal,” which are posters that advertise the visages of specific people - with the population of the world only rising, simply meeting someone in a coffee shop is practically unheard of._
> 
> _Character A is mostly against the concept, so they abstained from what had become the obligatory wrist band that collected information from the Temp-Terminals throughout the day. However, they regretted every decision they had ever made up to that moment when they saw Character B on one of the screens, only to see them disappear without a trace moments later, just like they always do. In a world such as the one they were living in, everything had become painfully temporary._

When Bilbo got to his coffee shop that morning, he found his usual seat taken by an obnoxious woman complaining loudly on the phone, and showing no sign of leaving any time soon. He grudgingly found a different seat, reminding himself that his usual seat did not, in fact, belong to him.

He sat near the shop window and started to set up for work; there was so much to do today. He pulled out his laptop, the yellow legal pad where he jotted all his notes and the small diary he used to record all of his deadlines and schedule his workload. He had to make a decent start on that French short story translation, go over two articles he’d written the day before, and draft another thousand words of an RPG rulebook. If he had time, it wouldn’t hurt either to send out a few article pitches to new paying markets.

It was only when he opened up his laptop and tried to focus on his work that Bilbo noticed the giant Temp Terminals right outside the shop window.

Great. Perfect. Just what he needed.

He put his head down, determined not to look at the sad parade outside the window. He could just focus on his own screen, and ignore the faces smiling at him from the streets, one after the other, forever switching from person to person. Except, he found after ten minutes of staring at his laptop and seeing one French words melding into another, that he really could not. He sighed deeply as he took in that most irritating, never ending dance of random strangers.

Bilbo didn’t even know why he looked. He was not interested in Temp Terminal, thank you very much. Social media had been fun, in his youth, back when it was only retweeting links to his writing and instagramming pictures of his food. At some point though, about five years ago, it had just become too much and he’d quit social media altogether.

Prim kept telling him he should really get his own ad on TT and he kept scoffing at the notion. You wouldn’t even have to set it to dating, she assured him, you could keep it professional. He’d told her a million he had no need for that; his reputation for quality copy delivered on deadline ensured he was getting steady work just fine. He knew she hoped he’d start with a pro ad, then switch to a personal one but that would never happen. He didn’t want or _need_ any romantic help from a giant electronic billboard. No thank you.

If other people were fine with the idea of just displaying themselves to attract a partner, then all the better for them. Bilbo wasn’t going to judge others but by golly, he wasn’t going to engage in that kind of flaunting. Not unless he could somehow display his personality as well as just his looks. The idea of building a relationship on the basis of fancying someone’s probably retouched picture on a billboard- No, it did not appeal.

He shuffled his things around and moved his chair so he could sit with his back to the Terminal, but before he could settle himself, the face on the terminal changed and there _he_ was. The face of Bilbo’s hypocrisy. A face he’d seen many times before on many Terminals, and a face imprinted in his mind.

The man had the most striking features. Bright blue eyes, a long straight nose, a close-cropped beard that made him look juuust the right amount of rugged, especially paired with that hair. The hair was glorious, mostly black, with strands of silver running through, the whole mane flowing free past the man’s shoulders. It was utterly impractical, but Bilbo had felt the urge to run his fingers through that hair since the first time he’d seen that man’s ad, over two months ago.

Bilbo turned away from the man’s image, blushing deeply. His was the only TT ad that had ever even tempted Bilbo. Would it be so bad, he’d thought on first seeing the man’s face, to just get a TT bracelet like everyone else? And then casually look up the man’s ID reference? In the end, he’d landed on yes. It would be useless in any rate, the guy was probably a model hired to attract people to TT, he’d been on the system for a long time and Bilbo couldn’t imagine anyone who looked like that would have stayed single for a long time if they were looking to find a partner.

Unless of course, his account was pro only? Which Bilbo could check if he just bought a damn TT bracelet. No, he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want to find out that the man was only after casual relationships, or that he was straight. Bilbo had no designs on the stranger, but he didn’t want his bubble burst. He had work to do, he reminded himself, and focused on his screen.

After three hours and a large pot of tea, Bilbo had finished a draft of his translation and edited the two articles. Lunchtime was approaching and he fancied getting his order in before it got too crowded. He got up from his seat and in his haste to reach the counter, bumped right into another patron.

“I’m so sorry,” Bilbo said as he tumbled backwards, steadied by a strong hand on his arm.

“Please, it’s my b-”

Bilbo’s squeal interrupted the stranger’s apology. It was him, the man Bilbo had admired on TT for months. Right here, in the flesh and looking every bit as gorgeous as he did on the damn terminal. Better, in fact, because he was real.

“H- hi,” Bilbo said, his voice unsteady.

The man took one look at Bilbo, no doubt seeing the flush on his face, and sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Whatever you’re going to say,” the man spoke through gritted teeth, “It’s a NO, alright? Good god, is anyone going to read that ad through to the end ever?”

“I haven’t read it AT ALL,” Bilbo retaliated, ashamed at his own behaviour but also quite peeved that this ridiculously gorgeous man was attacking _him_ for reacting to his TT ad – wasn’t that the point after all?

“You haven’t read the- But you- I-” The man’s faced flushed a deep crimson as he glanced down, shuffling his feet and Bilbo had to remind himself firmly that he was quite cross with the stranger.

“No, I haven’t. I wouldn’t.” Bilbo stood straighter, shrouded in his hatred of TT. “I don’t even have a personal receiver for that _thing_ ,” he added, waving his wrist at the stranger. “I did see your ad out the window, earlier this morning, so I was surprised to bump into you now.”

“I’m so sorry.” The stranger’s voice had deflated somewhat, as well as the whole regal presence he’d had about him earlier. That or Bilbo finally realised his silly TT crush was a real person - a real asshole too.

“No, listen please,” the stranger added as Bilbo resolutely returned to his seat. He spoke in a low, urgent whisper, colour rising in his cheeks. “That was rude of me. It’s only- well, my sister made me put up that ad. It’s just a pro ad for my shop, and it says quite clearly that I’m not- that there’s not going to be a personal ad, but- I just keep getting propositioned everywhere. Online, on the train, when I go pick up my nephews from school. I just don’t know wh-”

Bilbo couldn’t help but chuckle, gesturing for the man to take a seat opposite him so they wouldn’t be in the way of the counter.

“What?” the stranger snapped.

“Sorry,” Bilbo said, suppressing his laughter, “It’s just, well- I’m not that surprised, if I’m honest. Have you seen that ad?”

“You sound just like my sister,” the stranger grumbled, ignoring the overt compliment.

“I don’t think so. I’d never advise anyone to get on Temp Terminal. Even for a pro ad, th-” Bilbo cut himself off, remembering he did not judge people for using TT. Nope, not him. “I don’t mean to be rude, I just- I just have no time for that thing.”

“Neither do I,” the man grumbled, “It’s good for the business, but it’s just not right for- well, other things. What’s wrong with meeting people the old fashioned way?”

“Exactly! The way some people talk, you’d think every other way of meeting someone was gone!”

“I guess some people don’t realise they can just walk into a coffee shop and berate a stranger for no good reason, huh?”

Bilbo gaped at the man, feeling his cheeks grow warm as a small smile tugged at the corner of the stranger’s lips. And what a smile that was! The look of self-deprecation and apology on his face did not help matters at all.

Bilbo did the only thing he could think of and held out his hand for the gorgeous stranger to shake.

“I’m Bilbo, by the way.”

“Thorin.”

Bilbo found his mouth had gone quite dry and his hand felt quite bereft when Thorin let go. He gave a shaky smile, bobbing his head awkwardly. Frankly he didn’t trust himself to speak. Thorin had not mentioned a partner, just his sister, but he’d also said he had no personal ad. But was that because he wasn’t looking for anyone or because he disliked TT?

Bilbo couldn’t possibly ask that.

Could he?  

Before Bilbo could make a fool of himself, Thorin handed him a small, colourful piece of card.

“I should have kept to business cards, really. They do the job just fine.” Thorin chuckled, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. His fingers brushed Thorin’s as he picked up the card and a rush of hope went through him. Was this ridiculously attractive man actually giving Bilbo his number? Was this just for business? That made no sense, Bilbo didn’t even know was the man _did._

“The landline is the shop, but-” Thorin’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, eyes on the ground as he continued to speak. “The, er- mobile number on there is mine. If you- er- wanted to call- er- sometime?”

“I would _love_ to do that,” Bilbo replied in a rush, breaking into a wide grin, immediately answered by a bright smile from Thorin.

 _Oh dear_ , Bilbo told himself, _you are in trouble…_


End file.
